Take hence the bowl;—tho' beaming

  Brightly as bowl e'er shone,

Oh, it but sets me dreaming

  Of happy days now gone.

There, in its clear reflection,

  As in a wizard's glass,

Lost hopes and dead affection,

  Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither

  Some scene of bliss gone by;—

Bright lips too bright to wither,

  Warm hearts too warm to die.

Till, as the dream comes o'er me

  Of those long vanished years,

Alas, the wine before me

  Seems turning all to tears!